When The Wind Blows: A Spruce Run Mystery

by Mark Mueller

  As a reporter, I’ve always had a knack for finding things out because I’ve always been inquisitive. I like to research things. Even as a kid, I was always interested in hearing about current events or figuring out how things work. I loved going to the library and reading mysteries and trying to solve the puzzle before the last page, and I was almost always right. I’ve also always enjoyed talking with people and quizzing them on something I was interested in. And even now, whether I was interviewing people or researching a source, I don’t stop until I’ve discovered what I was looking for. I was tenacious, like a dog with a bone.

  I’ve ascertained that people pretty much fall into two categories when it comes to interviewing them. They’re either blabber mouthed or tight-lipped. Very few are in between. The blabbermouths outnumber the tight-lips by about ten to one. And Mrs. Mattoon was a one.

  The blabbermouths talk about everything under the sun but it is rare they have anything of substance to say. The tight-lips are the people with the real information I was looking for. Often times it is next to impossible to get a tight-lip to talk. But with some practice you can read between the lines from what they’re not telling you. Understanding body language is a big help, too.

  On a hunch I sat down at my office computer and went online. I don’t know how people got by before the Internet came about. You can find out anything you want on the online. Anything! You just need to know where to look. And for me, it always started with Google.

  I ate my breakfast as I looked up the website for the New Jersey Department of Vital Records. With a little luck and a debit card payment for twelve dollars, it wasn’t long before I found what I was looking for. I didn’t care that my debit card payment would leave a paper trail. What I was looking for was something I had a right to know, in particular if my hunch was correct.

  And correct, I was. I printed out a copy of the document I had found, folded it up and put it in my pocket. I then saved another copy to my flash drive. I would deal with it when I saw Maddy again. And believe me, I was going to deal with her. I was incensed.

  Once that was done, I turned on the police scanner and checked my emails. Just one message in my inbox: Debbie Duckworth had sent a missive confirming that Ghost Chasers would indeed spend the night at the library on a Saturday night in two and a half weeks. She invited me to join them. I replied with a missive of my own, informing her that I would be out of town on Spruce Run Bugler business.

  I noticed that my caffeine-fueled adrenaline level had begun to subside, and I could feel myself getting drowsy. Since I was alone at the Bugler, I decided that a short cat-nap was in order. Since I didn’t think the boss would mind, I put my feet up on the desk and leaned back in the chair and promptly fell asleep.

  My beauty sleep didn’t last very long. My desk phone blasted off and pulled me back into consciousness. I grabbed the blower.

  “Spruce Run Bugler,” I growled. “Start talkin’.”

  “Mac, it’s me.”

  “Maddy. I was just thinking about you.” Just hearing her voice infuriated me.

  “Good things, I hope.”

  I chortled.

  “Are you okay, Mac?”

  “I’m fine. So what’s up?”

  “I was just seeing if you’re still coming with me tomorrow.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” I muttered.

  “Are you sure you’re okay, Mac? You sound like something’s wrong. No hard feelings about last night, okay?”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Maddy.”

  “Okay, I’ll pick you up at eight.”

  “No,” I retorted. “You’d be going the wrong way if you came here. You’re on the way to New York, remember? I’ll pick you up at eight.”

  Maddy didn’t speak for a moment. “Okay, Mac. But be on time. I don’t want to be late.”

  “Trust me, Maddy,” I warned. “I wouldn’t miss this for anything. See you tomorrow morning.”

  “Okay, Mac, see you then.”

  I cradled the blower. I was irritated to no end. In less than twelve hours I went from being nervous about seeing Maddy again to being furious with her. How could she do this to me? It wasn’t fair.

  Sure, I had hurt her. I betrayed her trust. But I never touched her out of anger. I never hit her. I didn’t push her around. Instead, I drank myself into someone else, someone she couldn’t trust anymore. My alcoholism turned me into a different person, from Dr. Jekyll into Mr. Hyde. A passive-agressive Mr. Hyde. And sometimes, emotional pain is a lot worse than physical pain.

  But even so, I now felt betrayed. Maddy hadn’t been candid with me. She had made a blatant decision to keep something from me. And she used my drinking as her justification. It wasn’t right.

  I decided I needed to get out of the office for some air, so I forwarded the office blower to my cell and then made like an amoeba and split.

  When I got to the Charger, I was still heated. I was also aware that I was thirsty and would have given anything for a bottle of Jameson.

  I pulled away from the curb and headed to Route 31. When I arrived at the liquor store five minutes later, it wasn’t yet open for business. It was too early. Idling in the parking lot, I grabbed my cell phone and searched online for the next available AA meeting.

  Forty minutes later I was sitting among a group of people who didn’t know each other, yet were gathered together anonymously to help each other anyway.

  “My name is Mac,” I announced, “and I’m an alcoholic.”

  “Hi, Mac,” everyone in the group replied in unison.

  I spent the next few minutes recapping what had happened at the fireworks show the night before and what I had confirmed at the office. Even though I didn’t know anyone in the room, I knew I was among friends who understood what I was going through. Maybe they didn’t share my circumstances, but they understood how my alcoholic thought process worked, and they knew how to deal with whatever insanities life threw at us.

  After telling my story, I felt as if a huge weight was lifted off my chest. It was as if I had gone to confession like I used to do as a kid. Whenever I wanted, I could talk to other people instead of living by the axiom I drink, therefore I am. And that tasted better than anything I could have picked up at the liquor store.

  * * * *

  I went back to the Bugler when the meeting was over. Beth Henry had come in while I was gone. I could tell she was only half-listening to the police scanner for leads because she seemed to be more interested in an online chat with someone who I supposed was a friend. Or it could have been an adult chat session with a dirty old man for all I knew. Either way, she was chatting on company time and I wasn’t paying her to keep up with her social life.

  “Beth!” I called out from across the room.

  She looked up, and in the same motion she minimized the chat screen on her computer.

  “Oh, hi Chief,” she chirped with a guilty-as-charged look on her face. She picked up a pink telephone message from her desk and stood up.

  “Detective Duckworth stopped by.”

  “Did he say what he wanted?” I wondered why he didn’t call my cell.

  “No. Just asked for you to call him.”

  “Thanks.” I went into my office. Beth followed me and sat down in the chair on the opposite side of my desk.

  “Is there something I can do for you, Beth?” I asked as I deactivated the telephone’s call-forward feature.

  “As a matter of fact there is.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “I need a raise.”

  “So do I.”

  “I’m serious, Mac.”

  She called me Mac instead of Chief. It must be serious.

  “I can’t afford it, Beth. Not now.”

  “I’ve seen the advertising revenue figures. You can afford it.”

  “I don’t care what you’ve seen. Have you seen our bills?”

  “No, but my friend at the Jersey Register makes almost twice as much as I do.”

  “T
he Register is a daily publication. We’re a weekly. Your friend makes more because they can advertise more.”

  “I can’t keep up with my car payment.”

  “No offense or anything, Beth, but your personal life is not my responsibility. The Bugler is.”

  “I need a raise.”

  “Sell me some advertising space and we’ll talk.”

  “I’m a reporter, not a salesperson.”

  “I know, Beth. I hired you.”

  “I need the rest of today off.”

  “Why?”

  “I have some personal business to take care of. It’s important.”

  I glowered at her. “Fine. Just don’t forget I’m scheduled to take tomorrow off. I need you here to mind the store, okay?”

  “Works for me.”

  I glared at her but didn’t say anything.

  “Goodbye, then,” Beth purred. “Have a good day tomorrow.”

  I ignored her and dialed Ducky’s cell.

  “F.O.T., F.O.T.!” I announced when he answered his phone.

  “Where have you been? You weren’t in your office and you didn’t answer your cell. You okay?”

  I grabbed my cell phone and hit the power button. I had turned it off at the start of the AA meeting and had forgotten to turn it back on when the meeting ended.

  “I’m okay, Duck. I was at a meeting.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Last night got to you, huh?”

  “I’m fine, Ducky. Really.”

  “Look, Mac, I know you. You wouldn’t have gone to a meeting so early in the day if something wasn’t eating at you.”

  “What do you want, Duck?”

  “Nothing, Mac. I was just checking up on you. You seemed distracted last night after your little visit with Maddy.”

  “Over and done with, bro.”

  “You do know I was just busting your chops about the little girl, right?”

  “I know.”

  “Want me to find out who she is for you?”

  “No.”

  “It’ll take just a few minutes.”

  “That’s enough, Duck!” I chided louder than I should have.

  Ducky hesitated before speaking again. “Something’s up and you’re not telling me.”

  “Come on, Ducky, drop it.”

  “Okay, okay. I’m just concerned, alright?”

  “I know. And I thank you.”

  “We went through the war together.”

  “That we did.”

  “If there’s anything you want to talk about, phone me.”

  “I will, you know that.”

  “Good.”

  “Anything going on that my readers should know about?” I asked, in a deliberate effort to change the subject.

  “Well,” Ducky said, “since you’ve asked—”

  “Hold on,” I interrupted. “Let me get my notebook.”

  “Sure.”

  I pulled a fresh note pad out of my desk drawer and grabbed a pen. “Okay, shoot.”

  “Alright,” Ducky said. “This one’s a doozer.”

  “I’m all ears,” I replied.

  “There was an unusual motor vehicle accident just after daybreak this morning.”

  “Got it. So what’s the skinny?”

  “Well,” Ducky continued. “It seems that some businessman was driving his car along I-78, heading east. He just passed the West Portal exit, minding his own business, when he noticed in his rear view mirror that a three-legged chicken was chasing him. He thought it was weird so he sped up to seventy-five miles an hour. A few minutes later he noticed the three-legged chicken was still following him. He got nervous and sped up to over a hundred miles an hour. A little while after that, the three-legged chicken was running alongside of his car. When the man tried to go even faster, the three-legged chicken ran right past him as if he was standing still.

  “The man got so upset that he crashed his car into a ditch along the side of the highway. When he crawled out of his wrecked car, he looked around and saw a farmhouse in the distance. The man crawled to it and knocked on the front door.

  “When the farmer answered the door, the man told him, ‘Listen, I need your help. You won’t believe this, but a three-legged chicken was chasing me on the highway and I had an accident.’

  “The farmer nodded. ‘Oh, that must’ve been one of my chickens.’

  “The businessman looked around, confused, and said, ‘hold on, you raise three-legged chickens?’

  “‘Yes we do,’ the farmer explained. ‘You see, the Missus and I, we both love drumsticks. And we got to thinking that when we have guests over for dinner, with the three-legged chickens, I could have a drumstick, my wife could have a drumstick and the guest could have a drumstick.’

  “The businessman considered what the farmer said and then asked, ‘So how do these three-legged chickens taste?’

  “‘Well,’ farmer said, ‘That’s the thing. I don’t know. We can’t ever catch ‘em.’”

  I shook my head and laughed. “Where do you come up with these, Duck?”

  “I don’t make them up, Mac. I just report them.”

  “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

  “Of course not. Talk to you later.”

  The blower went dead in my hand. Typical Ducky exit strategy. I shook my head as I cradled it. Some things never change. Ducky always knew how to make me laugh.

  And I was thankful for that.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  My cell phone alarm went off at six, but I was already up and dressed by five-thirty. I was expected to pick up Maddy at eight, and I was anxious. What was I going to do? I was about to spend several hours with the one person I hadn’t made amends with yet. And I had something I wanted to confront her about, too. On their own, each was an uncomfortable situation to deal with. Put together, I doubted things would end well.

  I had always held onto the hope for some kind of reconciliation between Maddy and me. Even after all this time, I wore my feelings for her on my sleeve. There hasn’t been anyone else in my life since her.

  I’ve always known that making amends would be the right way to make a first move. It’s just that that the more you love someone, the more difficult it is to make that amends. So, I knew this was going to be excruciatingly painful.

  But now, through a turn of events, I’ve discovered a secret Maddy had been keeping from me for the past six years. And it hurt. Was she paying me back for hurting her? I don’t know. As long as I’ve known her, I never knew Maddy as the vindictive type. But still, why did she hold out on me?

  A joke that Ducky once used when he and Debbie were still married came to mind. They had invited Maddy and I for dinner one night, and as we were saying goodnight that evening I said, “Thank you for having us.”

  To which Ducky, in his inimitable way quipped, “How does it feel to be had?”

  So, was I being had now? I wondered. Was Maddy really that spiteful? I didn’t think she was, but I guess I’d soon find out.

  I filled up the cat’s food and water bowls. The cat, of course was ignoring me. It always ignored me, which is what I liked best about having a cat. Of course, I’ve often wondered if in reality the cat had me. I’ll probably never know for sure.

  I decided to leave my Cuban cigars at home, recalling that Maddy didn’t approve of their stinky, pungent essence. Instead, I decided that I’d take the high road.

  A little after seven o’clock, I got into the Charger and was off like a prom dress.

  And I left the cat in charge.

  * * * *

  Avoiding Mattoon’s because I was still irritated with Mrs. Mattoon and her tight-lipped behavior, I stopped at the Jugtown Convenience Store for a breakfast of champions: two diet Dr. Peppers and a bag of stale doughnuts. I didn’t bother with a sandwich. Convenience store sandwiches always tasted like cardboard, no matter what you ordered.

  I arrived at Maddy’s house at seven-thirty. Since I was
a half-hour early I decided to sit in the car and enjoy the stale doughnuts and diet Dr. Pepper until eight.

  Maddy must have seen my car on the street out front, because a few minutes later she opened the front door and waved me in.

  “Here we go,” I whispered as I got out of the Charger. When I got to the door, Maddy gave me a quick hello and let me into the kitchen. I can’t say I was feeling all that magnanimous toward her. I had the computer printout in my pocket and was irritated about what was on it. I decided I’d deal with it after the will reading.

  Maddy’s father was sitting at the table. “Hello, Mac,” he growled.

  “Good morning Hugo,” I replied as I stuck out my hand.

  Wuhrer ignored my hand. “Looks like Madge roped you into going to the will reading.”

  No offense taken, I lowered my hand. As I did, I remembered how I could never figure out why he called Maddy Madge. I guess it was just one of those familiar terms of endearment.

  “Should be interesting,” I said as I sat down. There was no sign of Maddy’s mother or the little girl named Charlie. Were they lying low, perhaps?

  “Is Amanda home?” I asked.

  “She’s out taking care of some business,” Wuhrer said. “Would you like a doughnut?” He glared at me as he held up a box of Dunkin Donuts.

  “No thanks,” I replied. “I’ve had breakfast. But if you have some orange juice, that would be good.”

  Maddy placed a pitcher of orange juice on the table in front of me. I picked it up and poured myself a glass.

  “Are you going to the will reading, Hugo?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he replied. “The wife and I’ll be going by ourselves. We want to get home before dark.”

  “How is this Aunt Polly related to your family?”

  “She was my father’s sister. I haven’t seen her in years.”

  “Do you know what’s in the will?”

  “Not really. As far as I know she didn’t have much. She grew up poor as a church mouse, though when she got married it was whispered that her new husband was from old money. He was some kind of nobility from the old country.”